


is there such thing as Life and Death

by TheMadNoodler



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Godstuck, Hurt/Comfort, Indulgent bullshit, Mild Gore, Multi, One-Sided Relationship, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, god AU, ill add tags as i go along, im so bad with tags omg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-06-03 23:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6631597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMadNoodler/pseuds/TheMadNoodler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say Life and Death are in love.<br/>That Life sends living beings as gifts to Death.<br/>That Death keeps them forever.</p><p>They're all idiots.</p><p>In this reality, Life and Death are at war.<br/>Life sends no gifts.<br/>Life keeps all living beings safe in his arms.</p><p>So Death will rip them all away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. God of Death

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my self indulgent angsty dirkjake bullshit.
> 
> I've actually had this idea for a long while now, but I was afraid to add to the long queue of unfinished works but I'm feeling confident. There're a LOT of characters in this fic and they all have their roles and such so I'm really looking forward to introducing them all! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this!

The small cat whimpers under your touch and you soothe it with soft strokes and gentle promises. Although you think it probably didn’t understand you, it relaxes anyway, no longer moving save for the shallow rise and fall of its chest and you watch as the light gradually dulls in its emerald green eyes. You continue you to softly stroke its matted fur, making sure to avoid the gaping bloody wound on its side, until the light in its eyes are nothing more than a shimmer and its breathing grows slow. Only then do you retrieve your sword, ensuring that it is out of the cat’s sight before advancing.

 

With a parting pet, you press the point of your sword over its chest and slowly drive it deep inside. The cat tenses and takes one last shuddering breath before it relaxes completely, its chest stilled with the expedition of air. Once you are sure it has passed, you pull out your sword. From the incision, tendrils of white vapor slowly seep out and congest to form a translucent figure vaguely resembling the cat from where it had poured out from. It gives you a silent meow and you can’t help but smile, extending a finger to brush against its wavering form. As soon as you do, the figure condenses into a glowing blue-white ball, small enough for you to catch and put into a crystal bottle you had just pulled out from your satchel. It goes in with all the other similarly glowing bottles in the bag.

 

In case it hasn’t been made clear yet, your alias is DIRK STRIDER and you are the GOD OF DEATH. You are just ONE of MANY GODS AND GODDESSES however you are one of the OLDEST. Although your physical appearance may indicate to your age as being somewhat early-twenties, you are in fact AGELESS and been hanging around for nearly as long as TIME himself. You along with one other God.

 

You cluck your tongue and stand up, attempting to dispel any more thoughts of the unappealing ethereal being. Your job isn’t done yet. You can already feel the pull of another fading soul. You head off in that direction, leaving the mangled body of the dead cat behind without so much as a second glance.

*

“Di-stri!”

 

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” All you get is a giggle in return as the Goddess of Desire and Passion saunters up to you, swaying her hips so that the frills of her purple dress brush tantalizingly above her tight stockings. “And where is your proper God attire?”

 

“Oh come now Dirky,” she giggles again and you can hear the snag at the end of her syllables, “why you gotta be so uptight all the time? Loosen up a little!” You just manage to catch her as she stumbles forward but you don’t realise it was all a ploy until she yanks you down. Drunk as she is, her lips fall on the corner of yours and her moment of confusion gives you enough time to push her away and hold her at arms length. She pouts at you, fluttering her lashes and leaning into your hold.

 

“Roxy, _please_.” It’s either the plea itself or your tone that dissuades her and with a sniff she pulls away.

 

“Fine. I’ll go play with Janey then,” she huffs and you silently apologise to the Goddess of Health, “at least she knows how to have a little fun.” Although you know she doesn’t really mean it in her drunken state, her words still bite at you as she walks off. With a sigh you too head off, back to your lodging and pray that you don’t run into anyone else along the way. Thankfully you don’t, and as you push off from the edge of the floor towards the sea, you allow yourself to relax in relief. Your home is a long way off, completely surrounded by water and floating not far off from its still surface and it can take quite a while to reach it, regardless of whether or not your flying. 

 

Although you do have a transportaliser, you had long since decided to block it off to prevent any surprise guests. You’ve learnt your lesson after the God of Doom had appeared in the middle of your sleep one time and demanded you drew pictures of the other Deities in various romantic pairings. What a nightmare that had been. You don’t mind the trip however, as it gives you time to just float by, unthinking and unfeeling. A state of near unconsciousness.

 

Finally your house looms into view, although you suppose _loom_ isn’t really the right word. In such a vast expanse of ocean even this larger-than-average abode of yours shrinks in comparison. It’s also very, _very_ plain. You’re not against that though. You’ve seen some of the other deities houses and it’s beyond your comprehension how one can have that much time or energy to create such lavish homes. 

 

On the roof you can already see your various mechanical creations that were previously running around now standing still as you arrive. They all greet you with flat hello’s and you merely nod in return. Your sharp eyes notice one of them missing and dread bubbles up inside you. _I knew I should never let the fucker roam free._ You pick up your pace until your practically sprinting towards your house, slamming the door open and searching frantically around the room. There’s a muffled crash from your bedroom and your fear increases tenfold as you rush to toward the noise.  Upon throwing open the door, you find a mobile mechanical machine lounging casually on the bed. More specifically, _your_ mobile mechanical machine lounging on _your_ bed.

 

“Oh, Death,” it says almost cheerfully as it smiles at you, “welcome back.”

 

“Don’t you ‘welcome back’ me, AR. Why the hell are you in here and what did you do?”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand and, please, do not refer to me as that title. I’ve told you previously that I greatly prefer Lil’ Hal.”

 

“Don’t fuck with me. What did you do in my room?” Although he can’t actually sigh as he has no lungs in which to expel air from, Hal mimics the movement by dropping his shoulders and his head, make a low noise of exasperation. 

 

“If you are asking in regards to my involvement with any technical projects on your desk, or any other objects thrown carelessly about your already untidy room, my answer is: nothing.”

 

“Yeah, right.”

 

“Yes in fact, I am right. I have not lain hands, for which the purpose I would’ve used them for being to tamper with anything in this room, on anything. The reason for my being here is simply that I had come looking for you and upon my realization that you were not here, I took it upon myself to reside on your bed.”

 

“Get out,” you growl and he complies, albeit slowly, “and if I find that you've so much as  _breathed_ on something, I’ll downgrade you.”

 

“Understood,” he said with a small smile that made your blood boil. Everyday you regret having ever built the damn thing with all its attitude and sass. It seems to find every opportunity to piss you off. You begin scouring your room for any prints he might have left, going as far as checking up on all your projects to make sure he hasn’t rewired them or added a part of his circuity or whatever.

 

The task actually took you a good half hour considering how many unfinished projects you had lying around. Although you didn’t want to admit it, Hal was right. Your room was disgustingly untidy. Your bed especially looking as though a wet dog had been thrown on it and had thrashed around trying to dry itself. You cringe at the awful analogy.

 

When you flop down on your bed, you’re startled by the sound of muffled clinking coming from the satchel you had put down earlier. Your lips twitch downwards as you stare at the offending bag. It was near full now and once it was full then… _Well, nothing I can do. Better just finish the job._ Although time holds no meaning in this realm, you do look out your window towards the sun now nearing sunset. You decide then that you can fill up the bag tomorrow. Gods like you don’t need sleep but nevertheless, it’s a warm change of pace to your normally busy days and with today being particularly stressful, you allow yourself the luxury.

*

_ Your fingers are fisted through your hair which you’ve long ago ceased to care on it’s impeccability as your eyes scan the barren wasteland before you. Puffs of fumes appear with increasing frequency and you momentarily abandon tugging on your head to draw your katana and impale some unfortunate imp on it. It gives out an angry scream, effectively alerting every other imp and monster within a mile’s radius. You curse under your breath as a sudden swarm of them come running towards you and you cut down imp after imp, bit’s gelatinous black blood splashing on your bare arms. _

 

_ Their numbers simply overwhelm you and you are briefly encompassed in writhing imp flesh before you manage to throw them all off and make a break to higher ground in hopes of giving yourself an advantage. It does and as you continue to fight, their numbers slowly dwindle until you’ve lopped off the head of the last one. Muscles burning and head dizzy with exhaustion, you retreat back to the top of your current lodging and allow yourself to slump to the floor. _

 

_ The numerous cuts up and down your arms sting and hiss as the black blood ooze into the open crevices. You’re forced to try and wipe it off with the hem of your shit, hissing as you graze across the wounds. Knowing that even with your lightning fast speed and dexterity you still struggled made you frantic with worry. He could be out there right now and although you didn’t doubt his ability to fend for himself, you knew he had a tendency to space out and leave himself completely vulnerable to attack. Normally you’d be there to watch his back but instead, you were stuck here. He had decided to go off on another one of his ‘solo adventures’ without prior notice. Even now as your fingers flew over the keyboard of your phone, typing out your concerns and your pleas, there was never once a reply. _

 

_ And try as you might, you couldn’t get the gruesome scenes from playing out in your mind. Of him being ambushed and overwhelmed, imps tearing at his skin and monsters slowly advancing on him, their teeth snapping dangerously with the threat of fatality. They would pounce on him, mouth stretched wide open to bare rows upon rows of razor sharp teeth before snapping forceful shut, ripping through skin, crunching through bone and tearing off his head with one whip of the jaw. And you would be helpless, unable to do anything but scream and scream and scream- _

 

_ “Ja-“ _

 

You jolt awake with a choked sob and force yourself to sit up as you descend into a coughing fit, tears streaming from your eyes and arms still tingling with the memory of its trauma. There’s a furious hammering at your front door and you can hear someone shouting your name. Your unable to move however, as your entire body shakes and shudders with the violent coughing and you hear your front door slam open. Footsteps thunder towards your room and the door flies open to reveal jet black hair and bright green eyes locking onto with worry.

 

“Dirk!” The Goddess of Memory and Sleep rushes to your side, attempting to place her hans on you before you push them away, still coughing. She ignores your attempts at rebuttal however, and kneeling down besides you, places a hand on your back which begins to rub soothing circles. Finally, as your coughing fit subsides and your able to open your eyes she speaks again, “Dirk, I…I saw your dream. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry but the presence was just so overwhelming I just-“ You assure her that you don’t mind but she babbles on anyway, “and it was just so horrible and emotionally draining and when I realised where it was coming from, well, I had to come here to check you were okay.”

“Sorry for inconveniencing you, Jade,” you say but she brushed off your apology.

 

“Don’t be silly! You’re my friend, of course I’d come! And good thing I did too! You seemed about ready to cough up your lungs.” You offer her a weak smile and shrug. “So, Dirk, what was that all about.” The smile falls off your face and you turn away, letting your gaze drop to your lap. “I could get glimpses sure, but since you’re a God, I couldn’t see the full thing. All I could feel was…fear.” You don’t answer her whether for privacy or incompetence. Probably a mixture of both. She nudges you though and you realise that she’s not going to leave until you tell her.

 

So you say, “I don’t know. It was probably just a bad dream. You know how it is with my line of work. I see a lot of shit.”

 

“That’s not what it is and you know it,” she purses her lip in displeasure and you sigh.

 

“Honestly, it was just a bad dream. I had a particularly stressful day today and haven’t really had time to destress so it just filtered into my dreams I guess.

 

“Dirk-“ she begins but you cut her off.

 

“Please, Jade. It’s late and I really need this.” She frowns, clearly not convinced but agrees anyway. 

 

“I’ll leave this here with you then,” she says, indicating to a small flask containing a black fluid punctuated with vividly coloured bubbles, “drink this and it should knock you out enough so you don’t dream.” You get up to see her off but she waves you off, telling you that your rest is more important and with a smile, you thank her.

 

 Since she’s left, it gives you time to reflect back on the dream. You were being honest when you told her you didn’t know what it was. It was already fading from your memory, leaving you with flashes of black and green and the awful cloying smell of rot and fear. You had been searching for something - someone in your dream, the name just out of reach. Thinking about it made your chest ache and you head spin so you decided to take Jade’s advice and down the bubbly drink.

 

Immediately your body feels incredibly heavy and you can barely keep your eyes open for a second longer. Almost as soon as your head hits the pillow, you’re asleep but for those last few seconds before you’re completely swept away you hear a voice call your name, soft and sweet and all too familiar.

 

_ “I’m home, Dirk." _


	2. God of Doom and Misery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh sorry for the long delay. I actually already had this chapter written up sooner but because I was a fucking idiot and forgot to save, I lost all of it TT^TT Anyway, this is quite a long chapter to make up for the delay so I hope you enjoy it!

“What the fuck have you done?” Your eyes are blown wide open behind your shades as they soak in the scene before you. Immediately after, your nose is assaulted with an acrid tang that doesn’t permeate so much as smother the air; so strong you can taste the rust on your tongue. You catch yourself making a face and school it back to nonchalance. Before the perpetrator, you knew better than to show even a sliver of emotion; or as you call it, weakness.

 

The hulking green beast turns to face you, offering you a blood-stained smile as he roars, “Death! My fellow artist! What do you think?” He splays his arms out, gesturing to the scene of carnage around him. 

 

“You’re fucking sick, Doom.”

 

“Don’t you mean  _ Lord Caliborn English of Misery and Doom _ .” You merely scoff in response. “Don’t be such a little bitch. Take a  _ real  _ good look. It’s a fucking masterpiece.”

 

“You’re supposed to  _ instigate _ doom and misery not participate.”

 

“But then where would be the fun in that? I have claws and teeth for a reason.”

 

“Life is going to-”

 

“To what? Kill me? Hah, that pansy wouldn’t even hurt a fly.”

 

“At least he knows how to do his job.”

 

“You honestly believe he actually does anything important? What’re you fucking gay or something? This  _ is _ my job. It’s my job as an  _ artist _ , Death. Have you even looked at my artwork? Look at the shape, Death, the inexplicably complex  _ shape. _ ”

 

“It’s a circle,” you state blandly.

 

“Bingo! Give the fucking idiot a prize! It’s a circle. As a fellow artist, I expect you know just how inconceivably impossible it is to draw a circle. Especially on that weird flat gadget we have with the inkless pen. I tried for years to perfect it. Day after day, circle after circle and yet I just couldn’t draw that damned circle. And then, one fine fucking day just like this one, it hit me. Humans themselves are basically all circles. Not a sharp angle on their weak, fleshy bodies.” He reaches down to pick up a severed leg, tattered nerves and muscles hanging off uselessly from the kneecap. Stroking the limb, almost lovingly, Caliborn croons, “an artist needs his tools after all right? Death?” And when his accusatory gaze slides over to you, anger threatens to bubble out of you and you barely rein it in by digging your nails deep into the palm of your hand.   
  


“Would it be so hard for you to try and lessen the size of your canvases? Your ‘medium’ is always so hard to wash out and besides, I’m always the one that has to clean up after you, like an owner cleaning after his dogs shit.”

 

Caliborn laughs, “Don’t be such a hater. You should be happy! Don’t you have a certain quote to fulfill? I’m helping you achieve it aren’t I?”

 

“No! Not like this!” And in that moment, you know you’ve slipped up. Your entire body goes rigid and although you don’t breathe, a bubble of air catches in your lungs anyway. All hopes of Caliborn not noticing your grievous mistake are dashed when he smirks and saunters towards you.

 

“Oh? Is that  _ sympathy _ I hear?” He lifts up the leg so the severed end brushes against your cheek, the blood still warm and wet. You refuse to react however, and continue to steadily meet his gaze.

 

“I’ve got better things to do than deal with your little periods of ‘inspiration’. So if you’ll move the fuck out of my way so I can get on with my  _ job _ , then maybe I’ll reconsider doing the dumbass drawing you keep hassling me about.” 

 

For a brief second, Caliborn looks slightly stunned before he smirks and throws the leg to your feet. He sighs, “I wanted to play a game but as usual, you’re clearly too incompetent to understand. Even my good-for-nothing bitch of a sister is more fun than you. Have fun cleaning up after my shit, Death.” He lumbers past you, deliberately bashing against your shoulder but still, you hold your ground. It’s only when a flash of green briefly illuminates the ground do you relax. And by relax, you mean mutter fuck with frowning intensity and volume until you’re outright screaming the word. You hate him. You  _ hate _ him.

 

Sure, he had been quite the source of entertainment in his beginning years, when you could give less of a shit about your job and wasted your time watching pony videos and doodling but he continued to grow increasingly insufferable until you know him to be the bastard he is today.

 

He does nothing but stir up and wreck shit and you’re pretty sure he also has some sick fascination with you, along with his wanton desire to see females holds hands and feed each other cake. Now, you just try to stay the hell out of his way until you’re faced with shit like  _ this. _

 

_ This souls aren’t going to collect themselves. Fuck, and I wanted to just chill at home today too. _ You step over the leg to approach the damage. This had once been an open clearing, mostly plain save for the occasional spotting of wilting grass. Now, it had been fully decorated with large, numerous splashes of blood, guts and severed limbs. Bodies lay littered in grotesque angles, flies already buzzing excitedly over the decaying bodies.

 

Smack dab in the middle of the clearing is Caliborn’s self-proclaimed ‘masterpiece’; a circle of mangled and broken bits. An arm here, a leg there, Caliborn had truly left no person whole. Technically, Caliborn was right. You  _ did _ have a quote to fill, however he had far from helped you. By tearing all these people asunder, it made it that much more difficult for you to actually retrieve their souls. A soul: liquid, solid gas. It was simultaneously tangible yet not. It existed throughout the entire human body and it’s-not so much heart as core per se is located in the chest. If the chest has been sufficiently mutilated, then you would be forced to find the next biggest body part and siphon the soul out from there.

 

Judging by the sheer number of bodies, you know you’ve got your work cut out for you so with a heavy sigh, you get to it. Making incisions here and there and capturing what little left of the souls you can find. You know you need to hurry. You can already see souls shimmering around the unmarked corpses.

 

(“Now listen to me, I’ve given you a pretty damn important your job so you better do it right. I don’t a shit ton of Mars and Banes running around, you hear? What’re they? Sit down lil’ man ‘cuz big bro is about to teach you a lesson. So you know those glowing blue balls, right? Those are called  _ souls _ . You have to collect souls. If you leave them long enough, they can transform into a- transform? Okay,  _ become _ . They can  _ become _ a Shade, which is when they copy the person they came from. You really want to stop things there and catch them quickly, otherwise they become things like Mars. Mars are when shades are left outside for too long so they start turning black and broken. At this point, they can touch people; the ones down on Earth. They’re not as nice as Shades, but leave them out for  _ even longer _ and they become Banes. I want you to promise me right here and now that you’ll never  _ ever _ let that happen, okay? No I’m not going to pink pro- okay chill my man! Pinky promise it is then.” You’ve never learned what Banes are but luckily, you’ve never had to, and you intend to keep it that way.)

 

So far, you’ve only seen mangled corpses and the bloody faces of bearded men, so when you come across a smooth, round face, you can’t help but pause.  _ This one can’t be much more than a child _ , you think, and looking at his young, unmarred face twisted in pain and fear you can’t help but feel a renewed swell of anger for Caliborn. It’s clear that this boy had not died at the hands of a knife of a gun. No, he had been  _ ripped apart  _ by claws and fangs dripping with bloodlust and fueled by excitement, intent on ending this victim in the most agonising way possible. And you can’t do  _ anything _ other than send his soul of to Derse and hope he sufficiently pleases the Goddess of Justice.

 

So when he suddenly jolts as you slide your sword into your chest, you can’t help but curse and leap back, hands at the ready. The boy coughs and chokes, hand scrabbling uselessly at the sword still embedded in his chest. Realising, you kneel down beside him and push his hands away.

 

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s all right, calm down,” you hush but he starts to sob and chokes even harder. You grab him by the shoulders and force him to look at you as you repeat yourself. 

 

“W-who are you? Where’s everyone? Daddy! Daddy!” Patience already worn extremely thin, you shake him and growl out,

 

“Everyone’s dead so shut up and listen to me.” His eyes widen but before he can say anything you continue, “how you’re alive is beyond me but you won’t be for much longer.”

 

“W-what do you mean,” he stammers, trailing off as his eyes drift downwards, faltering when he realise his legs are no longer where they should be. “No. N-n-no, no oh Gods no.”

 

“I’m sorry,” you say softly-you’re not completely heartless-and bring up one hand to tilt his head up so he won’t have to look at his mangled body, “I’m so sorry it turned out this way but it’s okay. You won’t be in pain for much longer. You’ll join your father soon enough.” Tears well up in his eyes, which he squeezes shut as he leans into your hand on his cheek. Gently, you lower him until he’s lying on his back, peering pitifully at you through his lashes. His body is relaxed, willing and you wrap your hands around your sword. “What’s your name?” You don’t particularly want this one last string of attachment but you figure it’ll aid in his transition. 

 

“T-T-T,” he stops and takes a shuddering breath and you want to urge him along before he kicks it, “Terry.”

 

“Terry, I’m Dirk. I wish you safe travels.” You ease your sword out slowly, still petting Terry’s head in what you hope in a soothing manner as his breathing quickens and he closes his eyes. The soul orb is weak and takes longer to congregate but you’re already pulling out your bottle, anxious about your already short time limit. 

 

You’re just collecting the first wisps of the orb when there’s a startling ‘No!’ and something sturdy collides into you full force, sending you both sprawling to the ground. You roll and stand up immediately, sword pointed ahead of you, ready to defend yourself from this threat. This threat who sports square glasses, double pistols and a pair of scandalously short pants.

 

“Life? What’re you doing?”

 

“What in the bloody blazes are  _ you _ doing?” Confused, you lower your weapon, slightly irked that he still continues to aim those stupid guns at you. “This boy is still  _ alive _ and here you are about to take his life away?”

 

“Oh for fuck’s - Life we are  _ not _ doing this again. I still have a fuckton of souls to collect and I don’t have time to deal with your self-righteous bullshit.” You advance only to stop mid step when the pistols aiming directly at your head are cocked and you growl, “Life,  _ move. _ ”

 

“Sorry old chap, but I’m going to save this boy.”

 

“Life,” you sigh exasperatedly, “look at him! Half his body is fucking  _ gone _ , Life, can’t you see that? Even if by some motherfucking miracle you manage to save him, how is he going to do anything without his goddamn  _ legs _ ?”

 

Life falters for a moment, eyes flickering to Terry before he says even with more determination, “I’ll find Jane and we’ll cross the bridge when we get to it.”

 

“Life don’t you  _ dare _ ,” you start but it’s too late as Life has picked up Terry and, keeping a firm grip on the exposed soul, has already retreating. You’re fast but even you can’t reach him in time before he teleports and instead just fly through the spot he had just been standing not a second before.

 

Your first instinct is to chase after him but looking around you, you know that there are still too many souls to collect, and with his appearance shaving off that much time, you’ll be hard pressed to finish this all up. Resigned, you resume your earlier reaping and make a mental note to deal with all that bullshit later.

 

~

 

You’d believed that you’d been extremely careful in tiptoeing around the corpses, so you’re irritated when you find that your tasteful green moccasins as well as your exposed tights hugging your shins have been unfortunate victims to the spray of blood. Yes, you said that right.  _ Tasteful green moccasins and exposed shins _ . You’ve looked up images of reapers before via Google and according to the humans you looked about as similar to their idea of a reaper as a black cat and a sassy rainbow pony. You were supposed to be fully clad in a deathly black cloth, a shadowing hood and wielding a particularly deadly scythe, all of which you did in fact  _ not _ have. 

 

As a Dersite, it’s required that you wear purple and even the God of Time himself isn’t sure why.  _ ‘I don’t know man, it’s almost like some higher being has designed all of us on a whim as a source of entertainment and thought why the fuck not purple and yellow? Because wow guess what, on the colour wheel they’re on opposite sides and if you think hard enough about it, you’ll come to realise that Prospitians and Dersite and all completely different too! Isn’t that crazy?’  _

 

You briefly consider visiting the Goddess of Beauty to get her to do something about this god-awful design because you refuse to believe for even a second that these outfits are destined and designed to suit you according to some high being who you’re certain doesn’t even exist.

 

The sun has long since reached its peak in the sky, beating your back mercilessly with its rays and you have finally finished bottling up all the souls. Your bag is practically bursting at the seams and with every movement, you can hear the cramped contains clattering against one another in protest.  _ Now then… _ It takes you less than a minute to fly up to Prospit - you fly because you daren’t risk transportilising, not with a bag full of fragility - and you’re immediately met with the Goddess of Mirth.

 

“Dirk!” she chirps cheerfully before giving you a quick hug, “How exciting! It’s been  _ ages _ since you last came up here.”

 

“Yeah, sorry about that Feferi,” you say sheepishly and you are because she’s right. It has been quite a while since your last visit and you feel a little guilty for not keeping in contact with this realm’s residents.

 

“It’s okay! I bet you’ve been busy but at least hit me up every once in awhile! Anyway, why the sudden visit? I mean not that I mind, I LOVE having you here.”

 

“Thanks Fef. Actually, I’m looking for Jane. Have you happened to see her around?” She presses a perfectly manicured nail - fuchsia of course - to her lips and hums in thoughtfulness.

 

“Sorry Dirk, it’s been a while since I last saw her too. We should de-fin-itely have a get together sometime soon! I want to hear  _ aalll _ about your lives.” But your mind has already kicked into gear trying to guess where Jane could be so you brush Feferi off with a ‘definitely’ and a quick wave goodbye before rushing past her towards Jane’s base.

 

As expected of the Goddess, she is made her house to resemble the ‘noir’ period, complete with peeling wallpaper and barred windows. As you ascend the stairs, the door opens ever so slightly, creaking ominously as you do so. Despite your growing anxiousness, you steel yourself and push the door open all the way-

 

-only to receive a faceful of beautifully decorated cake. 

 

Thankfully, your shades save your eyes from the saccharine attack and you wipe away whatever's left of the cake off your face, even giving it an experimental lick. It’s only once it has fallen to the floor, leaving a small explosion of cake crumbs and blue cream do you notice a note dangling on a string behind the door.

 

_ “Hoo hoo! I hope you enjoyed lunch! I’ve just gone to mine! Call in case of an emergency.”  _  You stare sullenly at the offending note and give it a little irritated flick. Thanks to Jane, you now have cake in your  _ hair _ . You’re just about to turn around and leave when there’s a sudden  _ bang _ upstairs and you pause mid step, ears straining to catch another noise. When it finally comes - in the form of very ‘vanilla’ swearing might you add - your doubts are confirmed.

 

_ Jane has left a note stating clearly she has gone to lunch, and yet…  _ You quietly slither upstairs towards the commotion, growing louder by the minute, until you finally reach the room of the source. The door’s parted only slightly, but it’s enough that you can catch a flash of yellow pacing back and forth every so often. Even without the distinctive colour, there’s no mistaking that thick accent softening the ‘r’s and accentuating the o’s.

 

“...to do something! Hurry it up Jane, the poor fellow is really not having a very jolly old time.”

 

“Jake, please, there’s only so much I can do! I’m a healer, not a life-saver.”

 

“Yes I’m well aware of that but even so you are very much a Goddess with some absolutely top-notch healy powers so I have full confidence in your magical capabilities.”

 

“Jake… I’m sorry but I can’t do this.”

 

“Now, Janey, come on. It’s not going to do very well to have such a sour attitude will it now?”

 

“Jake, he’s  _ dying _ . You need to call Dirk an-”

“No!” he roars, and the ferocity, the  _ hatred _ in that single word makes your skin break out in goosebumps. “No. You weren’t there Jane. You didn’t see the way he- how  _ willing _ he was to take this life, to take away the life of a mere  _ child _ . He’s just so bloody... _ cold _ . Hah, Prince of Heart? What utter folly.” Remember, you’re a Strider, a God and you’ll be damned if you let even a single word of this bullshit spewing from a biased maniac’s mouth faze you in any way whatsoever-

 

“Fuck you, Life.” Well, there goes your dignity. “Who the fuck are you to judge?”

 

“Devilfucking dickens!” He exclaims and Jane shrieks in surprise besides him. “What in the blazes are you doing here?”

 

“No, no, what the fuck are  _ you _ doing here?” You bite down hard on your lip and try to take a calming breath, ignoring the pain of your nails biting into your palms. “Listen to me Life, you can’t just take away a soul I’m about to reap.”

 

“I’m afraid I can, Death, given our current predicament.”

 

“What predicament? There is no fucking predicament! You’re the predicament here!” You hate the way you can’t keep control right now, hate that even before you fury, Life is calm and collected, regarding you with that  _ look _ that only serves to piss you off even further.

 

“Mr. Strider, if I may,” Jane asks and you glance over at her, “I understand completely that you are angry Dirk but if you can just see if from Jake’s point of view, even if for a second.”

 

“Glad to see your in the kahoots with Life too, Health.”

 

“Oh, don’t be such a child!” she admonishes, fixing you with a glare, “I thought you were supposed to be the more mature (so did you) and yet here you are, pointing fingers and throwing a toddler’s tantrum! Don’t you dare laugh Jake, you’re just as much of a child as he is! Dirk’s right; you shouldn’t have interfered with his job. You know how dangerous playing around with souls is.” Her gaze suddenly softens and she places a gentle hand on Jake’s forearm as she murmurs, “I’m sorry Jake, but I can’t help him anymore. Won’t you please leave this to Dirk.” 

 

Jake’s look of surprise is soon replaced with fury, a thundercloud on his face. Nonetheless, he gives Jane a curt nod and steps to the other side of the bed, arms crossed and glare directed at the ground. Jane sighs and looks over pleadingly at you which you respond by tightening your grip around your sword and keeping your wary gaze on Jake’s pistols.

 

It takes you a second to reach Terry’s side and when you do you realise that you hadn’t been a second too soon. Terry’s body - or what’s left of it - has broken out in a cold sweat and although he seems to be unconscious, his brows are furrowed in pain. He looks even worse off than when you had originally found him but even so, you’re amazed that Jane had managed to keep him alive for this long. Up close though, you notice the way Jane’s hands tremble and how the lines of exhaustion are so deeply lined in her face you fear it may be permanent. She gives you a sad little smile and your heart (hah) wrenches for her.

 

_ Better get this over with _ . Most likely due to Jane’s healing, the incision you had made previously is gone so you find a new spot over his chest. The point of your sword slowly pierces through the flesh and you shove it straight through, surprised when Terry’s eyes fly open and he chokes. Not wanting a repeat of last time, you place a hand over his eyes and hold his head still but he struggles and as you try and pull your sword out, you end up slashing him. Jane gasps besides you and just as Jake makes a move, you shout for him to stop and quickly pull out a bottle to retrieve the soul. 

 

Unfortunately, in your haste, you hadn’t given the soul time to fully congeal so there’s still a little left in Terry’s body. With that last little bit of life force left, Terry continues to convulse and cough and he lets his head fall to the side, fixing you with a gaze that you can’t pull away from. Moments later though, his body slows to a stop and the light in his eyes die until you’re left with nothing but a blank stare.

 

“You’re fucking sick.” It’s but a murmur but the venom in his tone speaks volumes as Jake walks out, slamming the door behind him. The sudden silence brings your attention to your haggard breathing, from when it started you have no idea. Even Jane is silent and averts her gaze when you glance over at her.

  
Tightening your grip around your sword, you turn on your heel and leave her with the corpse of a boy who’s life was ripped away too soon, his death painful and torturous, now become a memory forever haunting you with his gaze and making you ears ring -  _ “You’re fucking sick.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why're you so damn gay dirk?
> 
> please leave a kudos and/or a comment! your words always mean so much to me even if it's just a simply 'hi'  
> BTW: If any of you can guess where I got the name 'Terry' from, let me know in the comments :>


	3. The Batterwitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I would keep a steady updating schedule? Me too.   
> Sorry this is so long overdue and I hope you all enjoy it and I already have the 4th chapter rolling along so please bear with me! Thanks!

You’ve barely reached your front door before you’re already pulling back your hood and pushing back your shades, hand reaching up to dig the heel of your palm into your eye. You don’t even bother acknowledging the bots - who bow courteously nevertheless - and head straight to your room, slamming the door shut behind you and collapsing onto your bed after the bag slips off. It clatters noisily against the floor with all the bottles inside it clinking angrily against one another , but you ignore it in favour of throwing an arm over your face and trying to think about  _ anything _ but the events of the past hour. Visions flash across your inner eye, the images never lasting long and not even leaving so much as a fleeting imprint of their existence. You try harder.

 

Groaning when it doesn’t work (why would it) you pull your hand back, trying to focus all your attention on a miniscule crack in the ceiling that had, fortunately for its sake, escaped your careful scrunisations before. _I should probably fix that. A bit of cement and paint should do it._ _Yeah, I’ll smooth it right over. It’ll be so smooth I could be sliding across that ceiling like some shitty brat with a blood glucose content through that cracked roof, hitting that water slide Muscle Blaster Extreme III V2: Revamped for the first time. Sliding down that fucker so hard even my ass hairs will crow in victory as it takes the crown above a tactile’s wet dream; silk._

 

“Death?”  _ Oh fuck, no. _

 

“Get lost.”

 

“All right, but just so you know, I’ve been crunching numbers for the past three hours and the percentage of the probability of you getting your ass whooped for not delivering those soul bottles is 99.9934% and climbing for every second you delay.”

 

“Bullshit. How the fuck can you even calculate something like that?”

 

“I’m a machine, Death. It’s only natural that a supercomputer like me could pull something off so simple.”

 

“Jesus did I have to add ‘narcissistic egomaniac’ into your programming too or was my thirteen hundred year old self always this much of a jackass?”

 

“According to my calculations-”

 

“It was a fucking joke! You don’t have to answer it. And cut it out with that ‘calculations’ bullshit, it’s a piss-poor attempt at whatever ironic AI schtick you’re trying to pull out your ass.”

 

“I know, Death, as I was also making a joke in response to your joke.”

 

“Oh, the irony,” you drawl sarcastically as your make a show of rolling your eyes, “looks like I’m no match for your ‘supercomputer’ intellect.”

 

“Seems so.”

 

“Jesus fucking christ.”

 

“That was a joke.”

 

“Yes I know it was a joke!” you holler, throwing your arm to the side if only to glare at the bot, “I get it! It was a joke! You made a joke! Maybe you’re the fucking joke itself? Hahaha, well guess what? I’m a fucking joke too! A fucking joke of a God, of a reaper or whatever the fuck else people call me these days. Everything I say, everything I  _ do _ is just one. Big.  _ Joke _ .”

 

You hadn’t meant to lose your cool like that but after today, you couldn’t be arsed to care anymore. You knew you would get shit from H-  _ AR _ later but for now, you were more than happy to just lie in your bed and wallow in a puddle of self-pity. You’re relatively surprised when you’re met with silence, having already anticipated a sarcastic quip or the like and you’re downright  _ shocked _ when you hear him quietly say,

 

“You know, you can leave some of the heavy lifting to me.” You’re speechlessness doesn’t last long before you clear your throat and state a little gruffly.,

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”  _ Maybe he’s not such a waste of precious, materialistic assets after all. _

 

“Seriously though bro, you got to deliver those soul bottles to the Condesce otherwise she’ll do an acrobatic pirouette off the fucking handle and use your dick as a landing pad. In other words, she’ll flip her aquatic shit.”

 

“ _ Leave.”  _ Thankfully, he pads away and you’re given the opportunity to relax. He’s right of course, but you’re not going to let him know that and you’re  _ certainly _ not going to let him think that you’re now going to bring these bottles to the Condesce because he  _ said _ so. You’re the one that created him.  _ You’re  _ the one that should be giving him shit to do. Maybe then he wouldn’t be on your ass all the time.

 

As much as you can find yourself relating on an astrophysical level to it, eventually, you manage to drag your gaze from the  _ goddamn crack in the wall _ onto the  _ goddamn bag of responsibilities you don’t want to deal with right now.  _ In particular, one  _ huge _ responsibility that you really wish you hadn’t had a hand with in dealing with.

 

_ Time to get this ball rolling down the hill, full throttle to crush the Indiana-Jones sized problem under it’s circular heel.  _ The aggravation of it all pulls the air from your teeth in low groan as you grudgingly peel yourself up off from the comforts of your bed, pulling your shades back down and picking up your burdensome bag.

 

The Condesce’s abode is unmistakeable. A sprawling purple castle with features gaudily reminiscent of chess pieces and decorated with piercing spires and lightly-hued stripes. It is however, a massive pain to reach as it requires you to first go to the Medium, a plain in which the majority of the deities stay, residing in their respective planets. You suppose you would too if you didn’t happen to have such a shitty planet to begin with and unlike some others, you don’t have the time or energy to whittle your days away fighting the identical horde of skelebros on loop. You know some of the other deities actually have a pretty nice place like LOWAS or LOLAR. You also know that some others have decided to leave their own crap homes and live together on what you’ve come to understand is a meteor floating passively in the Veil.

 

_ (It never ceases to amaze you the sheer extent some Gods are willing to go in order to find refuge and solace amongst a community in the middle of an extraterrestrial land - which is already generous of a title as it is - where there’s been dick done to make it even remotely appealing in aesthetics and livability.) _

 

Mood soured by your task and your levels of tolerability much too low for you to even consider engaging verbally or physically with anyone, you attempt flying through Derse in your flagrant purple outfit as sneakily and discreetly as possible (which is a feat in itself really). Eyes have drifted much too close to your form on occasion, but it was never anything a quick step into the shadows couldn’t remedy. Here in Derse, it’s hardly an ordeal to blend in with how many holes of darkness clinging to empty alleys and stone walls there are. Houses are tall, narrow with sharp edges all around, roofs sloped in echo of elegance but slipping just short of that and ending up disfigured, horribly jutted and liable to dumping copious of rainwater or various unknown fluids onto the head of an unsuspecting passerby. From afar the city flitters black and purple, intricate archways and spirals reaching for the void reminiscent of ebony, desperate hands grasping at something long gone.

 

_ (You realise with some distaste that you are allowing yourself to brood and force your shoulders back, the sudden movement jarring your thoughts and sending them scattering in each every direction.) _

 

Upon reaching Derse, you’re immediately stopped by Gersite guards; burly, thick set creatures that have yet to have forgiven you for your chosen option of your announcement all those years ago (it was  _ one _ Dersite head and you had the mentality of a sixteen hundred year old).

 

“Give me a fucking break,” you growl and they take a menacing step towards you, “look, I  _ really _ don’t want to have to destroy your souls or whatever it is my job is. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is so if you could just move the fuck out of the way, that would be cool.” Being the thickheaded numbskulls they are, you aren’t surprised when they don’t move so, with a sigh, you raise your hands. 

 

As planned, they flinch and their gazes flicker to your hands, giving you the opportunity to quickly flash step over their heads and dash into the city and though they of course give chase, their stocky bodies are no match for your own lithe one and you easily lose them in the labyrinthine alleyways of city. Once in the clear, you double check your bag to make sure no bottles have cracked or, heaven forbid, fallen out and you breathe easy when you find that they’re all accounted for.

 

“Time to find the batterwitch.” Although the guard-kind of the Dersitians have a deep loathing for you, this is not the case for the other residents. In fact, in contrast, the typical Dersitians have mistakenly believed you to be their ‘prince’ after you had ironically dubbed yourself so during your announcement years ago. You can see vague awe and fear in their beady, dull eyes as you pass but you pay them no heed, eager to just get this whole ordeal over with and get the fuck out of this place before the weight of ominous, impalpable clouds weighed too heavily on your shoulders.

 

At last you’re ascending the steps of the castle towards the throne and thankfully the guards don’t stop you this time. You figure the initial guards and bumbled back to their positions not even considering setting off some sort of alarm of a message or something. As a result, you pass with ease, simply relying on muscle memory of the route to walk along as your mind wanders off.

 

Even before you’ve opened the doors to the throne room, you can already imagine the Condesce’s sultry smile, saccharine voice rotting, tarnishing your name as she calls for you like the good, obedient little dog before.

 

It’s exactly as you pictured when you step in. She sits, cross-legged and wielding her trident, on the throne, eyes locked on you as you’re going through the door and almost immediately, her hair springs to life upon her seeing you, coiling and writhing in a way that could almost be mistaken for shyness- you know better of course.

 

“Yo, where’s my respect boy?” Oh  _ God _ how could you forget?

 

“I refuse to bow to someone that tries to speak like they’re Lil’ Wayne’s long lost sister.”

 

“Why you gotta be gettin’ all up in my krill like that? Cut this queen some slack will ya?”

 

“Do you want these bottles or not?”

 

“Damn boy, you really packing a big one this time, if ya know what I mean.” You plan to burn the image of the Condesce winking at you from your brain later. “Now, hand over the chum.”

 

Although her hair was perfectly capable of retrieving the bag itself, you knew that’s not what she wanted. She enjoyed watching to you reluctantly trudge towards her, some sick sense of satisfaction as you refused to bow down from her stare. You stop an arm’s length away, holding up the bag and raising an eyebrow when her smirk widens. With a finger, she beckons you closer and after some hesitation, you oblige, mentally checking to see if you sword is still by your side (which it is - you can feel the familiar weight pressing comfortably against your thigh).

 

You hold up the bag again and are about to breath a sigh of relief when her hand slides right past the bag to latch onto your arm instead, forcefully yanking you forwards until your faces are scant inches away. Before you even have time to struggle, a strand of hair sntaches your shades away, tossing it carelessly to the side and you quickly squeeze your eyes shut.

 

“Oh shell naw boy, you ain’t gettin away that easy.” You flinch away when her claws dig into your cheek, mustering up every ounce of your will to  _ not _ open your eyes and instead find a way to push her off. “Yo, open the fuck up and lemme see those ey-ah!” She yelps when your foot connects with her shin and she shoves you away, the force of the push sending you sprawling onto the ground. You waste no time in getting up and cracking your eyes open just a sliver to locate your shades, upon when you promptly shove them back on and quickly draw out your sword.

 

“Don’t fuck wit’ me boy. I’ll get your sparkle shit eyes one day. Now go take a flip through this new secret jam I made with the dance clowns. I got royal business purposes to attend. And take this nasty ass bag with you.”

 

You don’t even think twice about snatching up your bag and taking off, leaving the Condesce to do whatever the fuck she does with those soul bottles. Although Dave may be the second highest in power and command, for some reason or the other the Condesce had ended up as Queen of Dersite, a.k.a she was the one that dealt with all the souls you collected. Just before you manage to reach the door however, there’s a sharp  _ crack _ in the air that near bursts your eardrums and has you freezing mid step.

 

“What’s wit’ this prissy soul bottle? This ain’t even filling half - soul reaper my ass. This is why I hate leaving the jobs to mother fucker’s like you.”

 

“You have more than enough souls there to compensate,” you growl through gritted teeth and she scoffs,

 

“You kiddin’? This ain’t even enough for a full day’s worth.”  _ Full day’s worth? What the hell does she mean by that? _ You voice your question and she clucks her tongue impatiently. “None of yo’ goddamn business. Go; I’m done wit’ your nosy-ass crap.” When you hesitate, she cracks another lock of hair again, hissing threateningly until you abscond the fuck out of there.

 

Several passing Dersitian guards give you odd looks (or so you think; it’s hard to tell with their default slant face) but you ignore them in favour of smoothing down your unfortunately mussed hair. You should be walking fast - faster than you had when you first arrived but for some reason, although your bag is significantly lighter, your shoulders still feel depressingly heavy, and it’s only then that you realise the weight you had passed off for as the soul bottles was actually something entirely different. A weight you had hoped would be lifted once you had removed what you know was the source.  _ Clearly not _ .

 

You hope Roxy is sober.

 

***   
“Di-stri. Stri-dizzle. Ro-lal to Mangaman, do you copy?”

 

“I’m literally standing right outside your door.”

 

“I said  _ do you copy _ ?”

 

You sigh good-naturedly, “I copy,” and try not to jump when the door suddenly swings open and then try to play it cool when you fail. Roxy just quirks an eyebrow at your poor attempt before ushering you in.

 

Your eyes immediately find a bottle of wine and a martini glass on the table and your disdain must’ve shown as Roxy is quick to reassure you that she’s only had a glass and won’t plan on having anymore  _ promise _ . Although you don’t necessarily believe her, you refrain from admonishing her as well. You came here to have a calm, controlled talk with her, not send her on another one of her brooding spirals.

 

“Sit, sit,” she says, taking a seat herself on the chair beside the couch. Her hands wrap gently around the cusp of the martini glass, cradling the drink as one of her own. “Want some?” You’re about to decline when you think why the hell not? You figure you could do with a little something to get the mood going - and no you don’t mean  _ that _ kind of mood. 

 

“Sure.” She grins and without even setting her glass down, heads to the kitchen to retrieve a new one. You use the time to absorb the surroundings. Smack dab in the middle of the room, a giant wizard statue looms oppressively over you, it’s similarly stony minions placed arbitrarily throughout the room, gray eyes watching you. Bookshelves to the far left of the room give off an air of wisdom, however even your shaded eyes can see the fine layer of dust coating the tops of the books, revealing its lack of use other than for purely decorative purposes. You decide you like the rugs the best when your eyes finally wander over to them. They’re vivid and intricate in a way that screams Roxy, and unlike the wizards, have not been thrown haphazardly around the room, instead plotted perfectly in planned allotments.

 

“Here you go,” your focus returns to Roxy who has just poured half a glass for you (and you’re thankful for that, especially after that incident involving a full glass and a princess squid toy) and is holding it out for you to take. “So, Dirk, lay it on me,” She rolls her eyes when you near choke on your drink, and re-words it, “give me the dough. The juicy, hot gossip. Tell mama Roxy what’s been the cause for your perpetual frowny-face.”

 

“I’m not-” you start but she cuts you with a hush and a gesture to get on with it. Knowing what you’re about to say has you practically downing your drink in one gulp and hoping that its effects will soon arise.

 

It’s not that you’re embarrassed (okay, maybe it  _ is _ a little bit of that), it’s just that you don’t want to just dump all your problems on Roxy again. Honestly, you don’t understand why you come to her time and time again, seeking advice and comfort for your troubles and generally just relying on her to sort things out. You remember having this long ass conversation about her to Jane once. About how much of a leader she really was and how you knew that if anything were to ever happen to the deities as a whole, you shouldn’t be allowed the honor of dying besides someone as amazing as her.

 

“C’mon Dirk, you can let it  _ aaaaaall  _ out.”

 

So you do.

 

And by the end of it, you’ve got nail marks on your knees from gripping them so hard and your tongue feels thick and heavy, as though the abysmality of the story itself had left gelatinous residue in its wake.

 

You look up when her hand tugs at yours to clasp, and she’s smiling so gently at you with so much concern and understanding and  _ love _ in her eyes and she’s such a wonderful being and the  _ guilt _ that you can never reciprocate, can never  _ help _ because you’re too goddamn wrapped up in your own problems that you never even  _ bother _ to focus on hers and that guilt, it  _ eats away at you like- _

 

“It’s okay, Dirk, it’s going to be okay. I mean, you’re Dirk fucking Strider, God of Death, Master of Ponybots, Prince of Heart,” - she waggles her eyebrows suggestively at you and you can’t help but snort - “and you’ve lived through the shittiest and ugliest times of all existence and so help me if you can’t pull yourself up from this funk, then I will personally deliver upon you one of my mackiest, wonkiest of smoochies.” You blink at her in surprise before chuckling wholeheartedly. Even when it comes to comforting people, she’s so  _ her _ . 

 

“Thanks, Roxy. You...You know that you’re really amazing?” And she is,  _ she really is _ and you want to do everything in your power to have her realise that. That day with Jane, you’d promised yourself you would tell Roxy everything one day, but for now, it’s baby steps.

  
“I know,” she smiles and it’s that small quirk of her lips, the tone of her voice, and the way she looks at you, that you know that she understood all that you were trying to say in the one, simple sentence, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave a kudos and/or comment. Your words are a highlight of my day!

**Author's Note:**

> r.i.p jane
> 
> Please leave a kudos and a comment! All of your words and support mean so much to me and really help fuel me on! Thanks!


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